There was no way to anticipate that the crippled woman would be able to lure him back to her apartment.
All right. It wasn’t planned. It had been improvised.
But she still must have told Elkin she was taking his fellow cop home. McHarg had sensed some uncertainty about her, something not quite ringing true. What he wanted to know was why she had passed the information on to Elkin. Where did she fit into this puzzling and terrifying business?
Getting into the block of flats was easy. He simply followed a shopping-laden woman in, politely holding the door open for her after she had used her key.
Betty Woodstock’s flat posed a greater problem but one he was equipped to deal with. He worked swiftly and efficiently, pausing only once to scrutinize certain minute scratches he observed on the angle of the lock.
They told him he wasn’t the first to get in here without a key.
Once inside, he checked swiftly round to make sure the other uninvited visitor wasn’t still in residence.
Satisfied, he then began slowly and meticulously to find out about Betty Woodstock.
She had a sister in California who seemed to write twice a year.
She was meticulous in her accounting, punctual in the payment of bills.
Since her accident she seemed to have bought most of her clothes by mail order. She preferred browns and greys and pastel shades, though the one or two dresses in her wardrobe which stylistically predated the accident were much bolder in hue.
She liked expensive perfume, was worried about dandruff, had a supply of contraceptive pills which were three years old.
She had an extensive library of reference books. She liked historical romances and P.G. Wodehouse.
There was a desk diary by the telephone.
McHarg thumbed through it. It was liberally sprinkled with appointments, business and social, but nothing particularly revealing. There was no reference to Elkin, nor did any of the names listed with telephone numbers mean anything to McHarg.
All in all he began to feel he was wasting his time.
On top of a heavy Victorian walnut sideboard was a bowl of rather wrinkled apples. He chewed one reflectively as he opened the sideboard doors. A bottle of Scotch caught his eye but he took another bite out of the apple and determinedly ignored the golden liquor. He found nothing else of interest till removal of a stack of tablecloths revealed a fat leatherbound scrapbook.
He sat down and riffled through it quickly. It was full of cuttings that referred to her career, programmes she’d been concerned with, critical reviews, articles from professional journals. Like most scrapbooks, it was meticulously organized to start with but gradually items were merely slipped in loose, to be stuck in later. And after about the halfway point, they stopped altogether.
But this was more than just the triumph of indolence, he realized. The last cutting was dated almost two years earlier. Not long before her accident, he guessed.
The accident. What precisely had happened? he wondered. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for a young woman, bright, lively, carving out a good career for herself, to wake up in hospital and find out she was on her behind for ever. No wonder her mind had tried to shut it out! No wonder she had lost interest in the scrapbook.
No wonder she had grown furious with him when he tried to explain his pathetic flaccid response in terms of his own tragedy
Mavis, or the use of his legs. Given the choice, there could have been no choice. But he shuddered at the thought of it. He turned his attention back to the scrapbook, in particular the final cutting.
After a while: “Jesus,” he said.
The cutting was from a journal called Broadcast.
It was an enthusiastic account of a programme at that time still in the course of preparation.
It spoke highly of the talents of its young producer. His name was Basil Younger.
It listed the experienced and enthusiastic research team.
They were headed by Betty Woodstock.
Prominent in the list of advisers and consultants was James Morrison.
And the name of the programme was The Master Builders.
So rapt was he by the implications of all this that he hardly heard the click of the door opening.
“McHarg!” gasped a voice.
It was Betty Woodstock sitting in her wheelchair in the doorway. She looked terrified and tried to drive her chair into reverse. But McHarg was at her in a flash, seizing the wheels and spinning her round and across the room.
By now she was grey with fear.
McHarg said irritatedly, “What the hell’s wrong with you? Think I’m going to rape you?”
She shook her head, still speechless.
McHarg said, “I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or an insult.”
He went to the sideboard and took out the bottle of whisky and two glasses. He poured her a large one, himself a smaller one. His body wanted more but he had a feeling that his body needed to stay in as good a shape as possible, which at the moment wasn’t much.
She downed hers in one. Color returned to her face. “What the hell do you want, McHarg?” she gasped.
“Nothing much,” he said. “I just want you to tell me everything you know about Freemasonry.”
For a moment she looked ready to faint.
He refilled her glass, watched her recover.
“McHarg,” she said, “you’re either a sadist or a fool.”
“Just a cop in a hurry,” he said.
She gave him a long, searching glance compounded of uncertainty, fear, distrust and, at last, relief, or perhaps just resignation.
“What the hell?” she said. “Just keep topping me up and I’ll begin.”
CHAPTER 6
Betty Woodstock started to cry as she talked. She hardly seemed to notice the tears and at first her voice remained level, controlled, unemotional even. But McHarg quickly realized that the weeping and the words were together part of a single process of great emotional release. He had known long interrogations end like this. All the interrogator could do was sit still and pray to God no one came blundering in.
She said, “Television research work sounds fascinating, but for a lot of the time you’re just following well-worn tracks over old ground. In Freemasonry, this means you start with two groups of people—its defenders and its detractors. There are plenty of both. Generally speaking, they use exactly the same evidence to prove opposing points!
“The apologists say that the ceremonies and rituals are symbolic and no more to be taken literally than what goes on at the official Opening of Parliament. The attackers say that no organization would have evolved such bloodthirsty oaths of secrecy unless it had something to hide. They then go on to suggest that the main object of the exercise is to use signs and special handshakes to gain special advantages for Masons, and while the apologists deny this, they also point with pride to many documented instances of Masonry transcending enmity in the American Revolution, the Civil War and World War One. And the list of famous Freemasons (including several American Presidents and some British Royals) is cited by one side as evidence of respectability and the other as evidence of widespread and secret powers.
“Me, I didn’t know what to make of it. I didn’t care for its male chauvinist side, but women have become Masons, and in the U.S. in particular there’s a strong line-up of female lodges. At one moment I felt that anything condemned by Hitler and Mussolini as an international Zionist conspiracy must get my vote, then I found that the official propaganda organs of the Roman Catholic Church used exactly the same terms! Certainly there’s no denying it has exerted political influence, in, for example, the French and American Revolutions, not to mention the question of Irish Partition. But generally speaking, theory apart, I found the actual Freemasons I met were no more, no less, than they seemed to be—ordinary decent citizens with a taste for male fellowship, charitable works and playacting.”
She paused to take a drink and now her voice was l
ower and quicker.
“So far it had been mainly history. But if (as seemed proved beyond any shadow of doubt) in the past Freemasonry was often a cover for all kinds of political skulduggery, I found myself wondering why this should just have petered out half way through the twentieth century.”
McHarg took this as a direct question.
“Superseded by superior secret organizations?” he suggested. “Official, like the CIA, KGB, M16. Or subversive like the Red Brigade, PLO, IRA.”
“Perhaps. But the whole point of Masonry, especially in Britain and the States, is that it’s so bloody respectable! I mean, if you want to attend a secret meeting what better cover than going openly to attend a secret meeting? If you follow me.”
“Yes,” said McHarg thoughtfully. “I’m with you. But had you come across any real evidence that anything was going on?”
“None whatsoever,” she said. “No, to be honest, what really motivated me at that stage was simple indignation! I was getting pissed off with all this male exclusiveness. It struck me that the only way for me to really get an insight into Masonic rituals and also to assert my equality under the law was to attend a lodge meeting. Crazy, you think? That’s what Baz—Basil Younger—said when I put it to him. This was a serious programme, he said. They’d had a lot of co-operation from top Masons. He wasn’t about to let me snarl things up by causing offence all round. Well, we were engaged at that time so I was able to tell him to go and stuff himself without getting sacked. And I flounced off to pour my brilliant idea into more appreciative ears. So I hoped.”
“These ears belonging to…?”
“The man you were asking about the other night. Jim Morrison.”
“Ah,” said McHarg.
“You were there when it happened, when he…died?”
“Afterwards,” said McHarg.
“What was it like?” she asked almost inaudibly.
“There was just ash. Hot ash,” said McHarg.
“Just ash,” she repeated. “They said in the paper that he’d been drinking, it was an accident.”
“Yes,” said McHarg. “That’s what they said.”
She shot him a sharp glance but went on without further questioning.
“Jim and I had been, were, very fond of each other. Lovers once. Not any more, not since I got engaged to Baz. But it left a link, a closeness. He was a Freemason, made no secret of it, had written articles about it in various magazines. Baz invited him to act as consultant, just to check the accuracy of the programme’s facts from a Masonic point of view. He was very useful. Anyway I went straight round to Jim’s place and I put my idea to him. I expected him to be amused even if he couldn’t help. But instead he got quite angry, told me not to be stupid. Naturally I wasn’t taking that.”
“Naturally,” said McHarg with a faint smile.
“At the same time I was really puzzled to find that Jim took it all so seriously. Or rather I’d been quite puzzled all along because Jim didn’t seem like the type, but now I became very puzzled. So when I flounced out this time, I didn’t flounce very far. I hung around outside his apartment block and waited.”
“To follow him?” said McHarg. “But how did you know he’d be going anywhere that night?”
“I’d noticed his little box of tricks already,” she said. “I told you we’d been lovers. Well, I moved in for a while, and I knew when he got his little black bag packed, he was off to the Lodge. I just took it as a bit of male daftness then, like playing rugby.”
“So you followed him?” urged McHarg. “Where’d he go?”
“‘He headed to Mayfair, to Shepherd Market to be precise. Do you know it?”
“I was there this afternoon,” said McHarg softly. “Visiting a friend. Go on.”
“Well, you’ll know what kind of place it is,” continued Betty. “Narrow streets, no cars, little shops, pubs, pros. I knew a few of them, I’d done some research for a documentary, that’s where I got to know Rosie le Queux who was at the reception the other night. Well, there was a narrow door between a science fiction bookshop and a bespoke tailor. Jim slipped in there. I hung around a bit, not difficult in Shepherd Market if you don’t mind the offers, and saw half-a-dozen other men go in. A couple of them I recognized. There was Ray Womack, the TUC man. And Terry Thwaites who started the cut-price airline. I just knew them from their photos, and a couple of the others looked familiar though I couldn’t put names to them.
“Well, I waited a bit, but when no one else had gone in for about ten minutes, I went across the street. There was a plaque on the door, easy enough to miss if you didn’t look closely, it was such a scruffy old verdigrised thing. It read The Templar Thanes of Elba. There are all kinds of other Masonic orders and side-degrees available for those who really get bitten by the bug, usually with fancy names like The Royal Ark Mariners and The Red Cross of Constantine. I’d taken a quick look at them and generally found that the names were the most interesting thing about them. I’d not heard of The Templar Thanes of Elba, but that fancy title on this scruffy door suddenly struck me as being so sad and pathetic, I almost gave up.
“But then I thought that the men I knew were in there weren’t sad or pathetic, so what the hell, I’d try a bit of eavesdropping!
“So I pushed open the door and went in.
“The stairway was narrow and shadowy. I went slowly up it, listening for voices, but I heard nothing except my own breathing and the creaking stairs. After the first few steps I realized I was just going on to prove to myself I wasn’t frightened. And at the same time I knew I was terrified. I decided I’d go to the half-landing and that was it. A couple of moments later I reached it and sighed with relief. Then suddenly I wasn’t alone.
“He just seemed to appear. I mean, I suppose he was there all the time round the corner, but it was like he just materialized out of the shadows. He didn’t say anything, but just stood there a couple of feet away looking down at me. It was funny. He was a quiet, ordinary-looking fellow but something about him put the fear of God into me. A sort of hidden menace. Hey, come to think about it, you’ve got a bit of the same, McHarg!”
“On with the story,” said McHarg. “We may be short of time.”
“Jesus! See what I mean?” she said. “I just looked at him too. Behind him I could see the stairs stretching up into even darker shadows. At the same time because I was at the angle, I could see the stairs I’d just come up running down to the street door. God, how attractive they looked!
“I spoke first. I said, Hello ducky. Like to buy a girl a drink? He said, Why are you here? very polite, very soft. I said I’d seen a couple of gents come in and wondered if they might be interested in a bit of company. I don’t know how convincing my act was, but he took a step towards me and I got the feeling that sex wasn’t uppermost on his mind.
“Then behind him on the next landing, a door opened spilling lovely light all down the stairs. A man appeared in the doorway. He called, Tyler, would you step inside for a moment? The Preceptor…Then he saw me, stopped abruptly and stepped backwards. And I was off like a flash, I tell you, down those stairs and out of the door into the street. It was as if I’d been hypnotized and the spell had been broken for a second!”
“Tyler,” said McHarg, recalling Mr Flint. “You’re sure that was the name?”
“Oh yes. But it’s not a name,” said Betty. “It’s a function. That’s what they call the outer guard at a Masonic Lodge meeting. The Tyler. His job is to watch out for and to deal with Cowans. A Cowan is what they call a spy. That’s what I was, a Cowan. And even at this stage, this Tyler struck me as being a step or two beyond mere symbolism. I didn’t realize how far beyond till later.”
Yes, thought McHarg. Form with substance. Vows with teeth. It was lunatic, but it fitted
“What about Preceptor?” he asked.
“The kind of high-falutin’ title these side-degrees use,” she said. “Well, I was off out of Shepherd Market like a rabbit. I didn’t look back in case anyone w
as peering out of a window after me. I didn’t know how convincing I’d been as a tart, but I didn’t want Jim Morrison making a positive identification just yet, not till I’d had time to think.
“You see, I had made a positive identification. The man I’d glimpsed through the open door was your dear friend, the Right Hon. Stanley Partington.”
“Partington,” echoed McHarg, nodding his head slowly. “Well, well. So. So.”
She looked at him curiously.
“You don’t seem surprised, McHarg,” she said. “Why’s that?’”
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” said McHarg. “What interests me is why were you so surprised. I mean, so our Mr Partington’s a what-did-you-call-it? a Templar Thane. So what?”
“So nothing, really. It wasn’t that that struck me. No, the thing was, Partington shouldn’t have been there at all! Remember it was at that time that the second big wave of public interest was washing around him about his Rhodesian interests. Mugabe had just come to power and lots of odd things were coming to light as his men started going through the books. First there was an explosion of indignation about alleged sanctions-busting via some of Partington’s subsidiary companies. Then suddenly that was cut off short and some bright journalist suggested that this was at Mugabe’s own direction as he knew that the sanctions-busting had been used as a cover to fool Smith while these same companies were also flogging arms to Zanu!
“Partington was denying everything, of course. I mean, he’d still been in the Government when most of this was going on. The scandal would have been terrific. But it wasn’t just the denial that interested me, it was where he was denying it from. He was supposed to be in a sick-bed in a Swiss sanatorium at the time, do you recall? Nervous exhaustion! I’d heard a recorded telephone interview with him earlier that day. Now I went home and listened to the radio news and there it was again. I had the feeling I was into something very scoopish.
“I rang Baz and told him everything. I thought he’d know how best to handle it but he didn’t seem much interested and. I got very annoyed once more. I told him if he was too dull to see the implications, there were plenty of Fleet Street editors who’d be a damn sight more receptive. After that he got a bit more placatory and asked me to leave it with him. He said he’d get back to me later or perhaps call round.
Who Guards a Prince? Page 13
